Читать книгу Red of the Redfields - Grace S. Richmond - Страница 7

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"How'll I know him?" asked Johnny Carruthers.

"Look for a well-dressed young man with a pale face, who doesn't seem to be caring whether he gets off at this station or the next one," said Dr. Redfield Pepper Burns.

"Lots of 'em try to look like that," declared Johnny.

"This one doesn't try—he really doesn't care. You'll know the difference. If all signs fail, ask him if he's Mr. Rowe. He'll get off a Pullman. He'll not be carrying his own bags."

Johnny nodded. "I get you," he said. "Not even if they don't weigh much," he added. "I'll get him."

He did. He brought Felix Rowe to the door of Burns's office. Between the station and the house he had made two attempts at friendly conversation, to which his passenger had responded with mono-syllables. As Johnny looked after Rowe, moving slowly up the walk to the vine-clad brick house, he said to himself:

"I bet I know why Doc didn't meet him himself. He'd got to get a fellow like that on his own ground before he'd start to talk to him. Of all the tired-of-himself-ers I ever saw, this one looks the worst. But Doc'll wake him up, you bet your life. Doc can wake 'em up just as well as he ever could."

So Felix Rowe sat in Doctor Burns's office, and found himself obliged to admit, at first sight of his new physician, that he had met somebody whose appearance seemed to justify the opinion Dr. John Leaver had of him. He saw a broad-shouldered man of over forty with a touch of gray in hair so red and thick that there was something boyish about it; saw the lines of care in the face which was that of one who had lived his life accomplishing something; saw—because they immediately encountered his own and held them—eyes which looked as if they never missed anything worth seeing. And there the inventory stopped, by reason of a certain peculiar barrier in this village doctor which prevented instant analysis. Felix had expected to read Doctor Burns with one appraising glance; he put the reading off a little.

On his part Burns saw that here was indeed a "case" for him. Felix Rowe was well neither physically nor spiritually. He was too thin for his height, too pale for his age, too "high-tension" for his good. In spite of a manner which was so quiet and contained that it might have deceived other eyes, Felix looked quite as tired, bored, and difficult to manage as was to have been expected from Leaver's letter about him. He looked above all unhappy. His dark, sallow skin spoke of under-nourishment. The black hollows under his eyes told of sleepless nights. The lines about a mouth too young to show them shouted of hard experience known too early.

The two exchanged a little conversation about the journey, and then Burns sat back in his chair, continuing to regard Felix intently, after his own fashion.

"Well, Doctor Leaver tells me your recovery is hanging fire."

Felix looked uneasily back at him, out of narrowed eyelids.

"Yes, Doctor Burns."

"He's told me exactly what he's done for you, and given me a general idea of what the war and life generally did for you before he took hold. So we won't go into that. I don't think we'll go into much of anything to-day. I understand you're willing to put yourself under my care for a while?"

"I agreed to that. I might as well be here as anywhere."

"I see. That makes it easy to begin. And we're going to begin by taking you to the place where I want you to stay. You're not too tired to drive a little matter of seventeen miles, after your journey"—he didn't put it as a question—"so we'll start at once."

"Where is this place?" Felix felt a sudden suspicion, one that hadn't occurred to him before. Had he allowed himself to be caught in some trap? Did they think—what did they think?

Burns's tone was casual. "Cousins of mine, living in what was once a farmhouse on the main road between a city and a village. It's all right, Rowe. You can walk away from it to-morrow if you don't like it. Maybe you won't. Depends on you. And as by the time you get there it'll be their hour for supper, we'll go along at once. Ready?"

Well, this certainly was a most extraordinary way, thought Felix, for a doctor to receive a patient. He had expected at least an hour's inquisition—perhaps two; questions, examinations, prescriptions, proscriptions; diet lists, advice—advice by the yard. But perhaps he was to get that on the way to this place where he was to be taken. No doctor whom he had ever met had missed a chance to talk to and at and about his patient; of course Burns would begin that the moment they were in the car. Felix waited.

They went out and got into the car; Felix saw now why the chauffeur hadn't brought in his luggage; why his small leather trunk remained strapped on the back. At a nod from Burns, Johnny Carruthers got out and the two men got in. A minute later they were off. Three minutes later, having passed the boundaries of the small suburban town, the car was humming along at a speed the passenger hadn't expected. This middle-aged doctor was a hustler, then. Drove not so much as if he were in a hurry as if that were the way he was accustomed to drive, without thinking anything about it. The wind-shield was open, and in the waning warmth of the October afternoon the air came in like a small whirlwind. Felix would have liked to shut it out, but his companion didn't seem to think of it. Burns's face had a tanned, ruddy hue, indicative of much exposure to the weather. He didn't look in the least like one obliged to cut down his activities, conserve his energies, and generally take care of himself. Felix couldn't possibly have guessed that the physician was worse off than his patient.

Seventeen miles they covered, passing through the intervening city, and necessarily slowing down for traffic. Even so it was uncanny the way the car slid along, diving through small spaces, slipping past one obstacle after another. It might have been a reckless boy at the wheel, Felix thought, and knew that but for his shaky nerves he should have enjoyed the exhibition of skilful driving.

No talk—almost no talk at all. That was the queerest thing! Now and then Burns made some pleasant, curt observation about the country through which they were passing, but he seemed to make no attempt to get to know his patient; certainly he gave him not a word which could in the remotest sense be considered "professional." Felix was weary; he had slept little upon the train. In a way, he welcomed the silent drive. But Burns's reserve certainly did pique his languid curiosity. Only as they were entering upon the last mile of the quick trip did this extraordinary doctor make brief explanations.

"All I'm going to tell you about the Redfields is that their home is a place I'd like to stay in myself for almost any indefinite period. I'm going to leave you at their door and run back home for my own dinner. Some day I'll come out and we'll see how you like it. Meanwhile——"

He turned and glanced at Felix, who stared back at him. Then the Doctor burst into a hearty laugh.

"Expecting a prescription?" he questioned. "Not one. Do exactly as you please."

Felix Rowe's amazement was complete. "You don't expect me to take that literally?"

"Literally—within your own limitations."

"You don't care what I eat—or don't eat?"

"Not a hang."

"Nor whether I—smoke?"

"That's up to your own judgment. You know whether you can smoke—and sleep."

"You're not going to give me any—orders?"

"Why should I? You have brains, I take it. At least you look as if you have. If you haven't, it's not I can supply them——"

"Do you expect me"—Felix considered it—"to be able to sleep to-night?"

"Don't know why not. Mrs. Redfield's beds look mighty comfortable to me."

"What if I don't?" His patient was being stung into asking for advice, somewhat to his own astonishment—he who was so weary of advice he had long wanted to run away from it.

"Lie awake. It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?"

"Why, no! You're not going to die if you don't sleep, are you? If you are I won't leave you here: it would be a bother to Mrs. Redfield."

There was a full minute's silence. Then Felix said stiffly: "Excuse me for asking these questions, Doctor Burns. I supposed I was under your care."

"I supposed you were, too. If you want me to come in with you and put you to bed, feel your pulse and give you some medicine to take every hour, I can do it. But you look to me perfectly competent to put yourself to bed. This isn't a hospital I'm bringing you to. And as for the medicine, you've had enough of that, haven't you?"

"Why, yes—only——"

"Then suppose we make it along for a while without any. Taking medicine's a nuisance, from my point of view—keeps you watching the clock.—Well, here we are. Looks rather pleasant?"

It did look pleasant, the old house back among the trees. A mellow light glowed from all the downstairs windows and from the upper pair on the left of the front door—a sturdy door painted dark green with a knocker on it. Shrubbery grew high on either side of the door—lilac bushes, their leaves now half gone. A pair of collies came racing down the gravel path as the car stopped.